Chinedu Gospel
Season (. . ./. . .)
Night scissors you into a colony of
scars. You hold psalms under your
tongue & they ferment into wine.
Are these seasons gliding down your
throat not summer skies
sprinkling through the sun in your
scorching heart. You hold your breath
through the night & gather a plethora
of hope at the feet of morning –
a shimmering that undarkens you in the
eyes of the sun. You, a nascent glow
in your mother’s eyes. You, a sharp amen
blading her tongue into halves. You, a softness
in the soil. Say, a grass being grazed by grief.
You, water vapourizing into an empty
kettle. & in poems like this, nothing sounds
louder than a bell clanging at a distant
temple without echoes. A hijab babbling
with salt water & you drowning in
it. You mistake Adhan for rapture,
confess your imperfections. Yet, you, a fleet
of unforgiveness wading through holy waters.
Your mother has a habit of bathing you
at night when you sleep.
The pool of tears she outpours with your name
as the only inhabitant, gliding towards a tributary
of redemption. Yet, you survive only in prayers.
But in reality, it is one metaphor after another.
How you mistake a knife for a mattress. A bathtub for a
pool where you can devoid yourself, this
heaviness. Every night, you think yourself
a moth that can die instinctively. At sun-
rise, you’re a butterfly morphing into
beauty. You are –
scars. You hold psalms under your
tongue & they ferment into wine.
Are these seasons gliding down your
throat not summer skies
sprinkling through the sun in your
scorching heart. You hold your breath
through the night & gather a plethora
of hope at the feet of morning –
a shimmering that undarkens you in the
eyes of the sun. You, a nascent glow
in your mother’s eyes. You, a sharp amen
blading her tongue into halves. You, a softness
in the soil. Say, a grass being grazed by grief.
You, water vapourizing into an empty
kettle. & in poems like this, nothing sounds
louder than a bell clanging at a distant
temple without echoes. A hijab babbling
with salt water & you drowning in
it. You mistake Adhan for rapture,
confess your imperfections. Yet, you, a fleet
of unforgiveness wading through holy waters.
Your mother has a habit of bathing you
at night when you sleep.
The pool of tears she outpours with your name
as the only inhabitant, gliding towards a tributary
of redemption. Yet, you survive only in prayers.
But in reality, it is one metaphor after another.
How you mistake a knife for a mattress. A bathtub for a
pool where you can devoid yourself, this
heaviness. Every night, you think yourself
a moth that can die instinctively. At sun-
rise, you’re a butterfly morphing into
beauty. You are –
Biography
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Chinedu Gospel, Frontier IV, is a Nigerian poet who writes from Anambra. He's the moderator for spoken word poetry at Thresposs Poetry community. His works have appeared in Afro Literary Magazine, Roughcut Press, The Rising Phoenix Review, Midway Journal, Agbowo Magazine, Feral Poetry, & many others. When he's not writing, he's either playing chess or listening to Aurora's playlist. Meet him on Twitter @gospel79070806 and IG @gospelsofpoetry
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